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Nineteen-thirty was a long, cold childhood wedged into a scar and food that filled half the cupboard. Ma'd lick the pencil stump and make her lists. Each item considered, written, erased, re-written according to what jingled in the broken tea pot.
At six o'clock, she always listened to the news and groaned, her body a vast burial ground for victims of plagues, revolutions, wars, each groan another corpse. She stood ironing, every stroke a preparation for the burial, a straightening of limbs, a smoothing of features, a final act of love.
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